


(implied (time))

by Code16



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Time, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Prompt Fill, Threats, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 13:04:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: "He has never before received such a summons. He does not think his uncle has ever before wished to speak to him. He does not think his uncle has ever before wished to so much as look at him. "(Prompt: Fëanor and Fingon, first sexual encounter, noncon.)





	(implied (time))

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by [Outofangband](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outofangband/pseuds/Outofangband): "Fëanor and Fingon, first sexual encounter", "Finno being of age but because of circumstances more vulnerable". (Noncon).

He finds the invitation on his desk. Fine paper and intricate calligraphy - he wonders for a moment if it is an invitation to some ceremony by the King, before he picks it up. The seal is not the King’s. It is the Crown Prince’s - he can recognize it easily, though his uncle has never written him personally before. He opens it.

It is a summons. The Crown Prince wishes to see him, he is to come to his chambers at such and such hour. The calligraphy, as ornate, gives no further details. He reads the letter again, as though expecting them to materialize in some way if he does so (though if anyone could make a letter that did such a thing, it would be his uncle). The letter does not reveal any further words in it. 

He has never before received such a summons. He does not think his uncle has ever before wished to speak to him. He does not think his uncle has ever before wished to so much as look at him. ( _ It isn’t your fault _ , he remembers his parents saying to him, when he’d still been a child running around the palace, when they’d found him crying, hiding himself behind a statue, at the way his uncle had looked at him then. The way he’d ordered him away. They’d told him a little of that story then, enough for a child.  _ It isn’t you. _

_ Try to keep out of his way _ , they were all told, and, dutifully, he’d obeyed, seeing his uncle sometimes as glimpses in an intersecting hall, across the table at dinners, on the podium in the throne hall.

And -  _ do not disobey the Crown Prince _ . That one, impressed on them once they were old enough to understand, repeated again, echoed in some ways across the years.  _ The King is due respect and honor _ , and  _ the nation obeys the King,  _ and 

_ Do not disobey the Crown Prince _ .) He has no impulse to disobey, or reason to. He dresses for the time of day, as he has nothing else by which to decide what he might wear. He goes.

The attendant at the door announces him and lets him in. The Crown Prince - his uncle - is sitting in an upholstered chair in his sitting room. Findekano bows once he’s entered. “Your highness.   
You wished to see me?”

“Yes,” Feanor says, after a moment. Is - definitely looking at him. “Kneel.”

...He kneels. (He has knelt to the Crown Prince before, in the throne hall or at festivals. Never before in his chambers. But then, he has never before been in his chambers.)

“I cannot decide,” Feanor says, in the same tone Findekano has heard him speak in to any number of elves who have not been told to keep out of his way. “if I should fuck you first in this room, or take you immediately to my bed.”

He thinks for a moment that he has somehow misheard. Or - hallucinated this, perhaps, fallen for a moment into a dream. “Y-your highness?” he stammers out, his voice seeming the part of him to collect itself to an action before any other.

“I said,” Feanor sits forward slightly; Findekano can see it even with his eyes lowered as he’s knelt. “That I cannot decide if I should fuck you first in this room, or take you immediately to my bed.” His body feels frozen in place. That is - not correct. Something is wrong. He needs to stand, needs to walk back to the door, needs to tell the attendant that something has happened to the Crown Prince, they should call a healer, someone-

“Don’t move.” He does not think he has actually started to move. He should, though -  _ something has happened - _

”Come here. On your knees.” He goes. He shouldn’t. It’s the wrong direction. And he should stand up. His body feels like it might be moving without involving his input.  _ Do not disobey the Crown Prince _ -

“Unlace my trousers.” His hands do not move. He - he has not misheard, this many times. He is not dreaming.  _ Do not disobey the Crown Prince.  _ He knows the rules of obedience. The nation obeys the King, and the King gives them no orders that they would not be honored to follow. He should stand-

Feanor grabs his wrist. His grip is iron. “Do you need my help to find the laces?” His hand is shaking. He does not think he could pull it from his uncle’s hold. He should - scream, then. Call for someone. 

Still holding his wrist, his uncle moves his hand easily. Places it down and lets go. The moment the grip is gone he starts to jerk his hand back - not thinking again. Not wanting to think what was just under it. His uncle catches it again.

“Do I need to call an attendant to hold you? That, I can do in either room.” He should scream. He should call for someone else, even if the attendant won’t- 

He pulls against his uncle’s hand, first with his own, then with his whole body behind it. It almost works for a moment. Then his uncle readjusts, and his hold is again unyielding. (He hasn’t screamed yet. He isn’t sure how it is his body makes decisions.)

“I was not going to hurt you overmuch, this time. It is your first time. But if you insist on being difficult, that I can reconsider.” He stops pulling. His body is feeling strangely cold.

“But ah. I have forgotten your other letter.” Without letting go of him, Feanor reaches his other hand across the table beside him. Plucks a letter from it. This one is on more regular paper. He recognizes his father’s hand in the calligraphy in front. (The ink is smeared in a few places, the paper pitted, as though water drops had fallen on it.) Feanor breaks the seal, opens the letter for him. It is even shorter than the other.

> _ I’m sorry.  _
> 
> _ If there was anything I could do to spare you this, I would do it. _
> 
> _ It is not your fault. _
> 
> _ I’m sorry. _

For a moment, he again thinks there has been some mistake. Even as he knows his father’s hand, it could be -. But after his name the front of the letter had said,  _ in the rooms of the Crown Prince Feanaro _ .

( _ Do not disobey the Crown Prince _ . He remembers, suddenly, his father’s face once when he had repeated that instruction. He had only thought it odd at the time, had not realized it for what it was. For fear.)

(That is why he had not screamed, he realizes at once now, the possibility of it as now behind him as the door to Feanor’s chambers. As long as he did not scream, he could think that if he screamed someone would come. If he screamed, and no one came -

_ “If there was anything I could do” _ . He doesn’t.)

“Well?” Feanor has put the letter down. “Shall I call a guard? Shall I send you back to your father bleeding? Or will you do as I say?”

“I-” As though knowing he cannot call out has made his throat close on all sound, the words refuse to come. He shuts his eyes. Pulls them forward again.  _ (Do not…) _ “I will obey you.” Feanor still holds his left hand. He lifts his right to where Feanor had brought the other. Laces. (It is shaking again. Both are). After a moment Feanor releases his wrist. Keeps his own hand by, as though prepared to seize it again should Findekano move in an unwilled direction. He doesn’t. Finds the knot in the laces, pulls at the ends.

It’s oddly easy. Or - perhaps not oddly. It feels as though it should be near unassailable, like some dark mountain range, but it is not as though he does not know how to remove trousers, and there is no reason, actually, why that should have become  _ harder _ because-. The laces pull loose. Feanor reaches into his trousers. Pulls his cock out.

Findekano has seen others naked before. In the baths, or swimming, or to shorten time in changing clothes. He has never been so  _ close _ . He has never -. He cannot make himself look away.

“Take me in your mouth.” He has only the most general idea of what that even means. Has glimpsed a few illustrations, as others look at them. Heard a few remarks, jokes or lines in tales. “Now, Findekano.”  _ Do not disobey the Crown Prince. “Shall I send you back to your father bleeding?” _ He shivers, all over his body, once. His mouth, how does he take something in his mouth -.

He opens his mouth and tries it, moves his head closer and puts his lips around that which is in front of him. Tries not to think about how that tastes, how it feels. The smell of being this close. 

“That will do for a start. Now lower down, and suck.” He tries. He has never done this, but his body has always been quick to learn, responsive to him. Obedient to him. Soon Feanor’s cock is sliding over his tongue, his lips still surrounding it. Feanor makes a sound, quiet but unmistakable for anything but pleasure.

He keeps trying for a while. Thinks he is - getting better, maybe (he doesn’t know if he wants to think that.) Then Feanor’s hand rises to his hair. “Try not to choke.” He’s understood the words but not quite their meaning yet, not enough to expect the thrust when it comes. He does choke, then again when Feanor pulls out and thrusts back in again. Feanor seems undeterred, holds his hair and pushes into his mouth and further as Findekano tries desperately not to gag harder than that. “ _ not hurt you overmuch _ ”

He is still choking perhaps one thrust in two when Feanor doesn’t complete one, pulls partially out and comes across his tongue. He knows enough, has control of himself enough not to spit it back at him. Swallows, the taste staying vivid after on his tongue and the back of his throat. “Yes I think this room will do,” he hears Feanor say as the hand in his hair drags at it to force him to his feet. “Lie down on the couch,” adds Feanor, releasing his hair and leaving him stumbling for a moment. “And take off your clothes.”

He has been seen naked before. He tries not to think about being seen now, just pull off his clothing, drop it to the floor, find the couch. (It doesn’t work. He feels exposed, horribly, as though the air on his skin is also Feanor’s eyes, as though those eyes might physically crawl over him.)

He lies down on the couch. Presses his mouth into his hand, because he has learned already that ‘not going to hurt you overmuch’ does not mean that it will not hurt, and he knows enough.

It hurts. He tries to think about that, because it is better, easier to think about than the rest of it, better to think his body feels like it is tearing from the inside than to think about  _ wrongness _ , that this should not happen and it is, and there is some jarring note around and through him and all his strings are coming apart. 

Feanor finishes. Lies over him, weight pressing him down, and touches, and runs a hand through his hair. “Next time we will try the bedroom.” He notices he is already crying when this makes it happen again, makes his whole body shake again. Feanor gets up and walks away, pauses by them to toss his clothes at him. 

“There is a door to a private passageway beside the armoire. You may take it. If you are still here when I return to this room, the next time will be now.” He leaves - Findekano can hear the door to whatever other room in his chambers.

He falls off the couch trying to get off it. Collects his clothes and tries to begin putting them on and trips on them and falls again, and in the end wraps something around himself and finds the door Feanor mentioned half by touch and is out into the passage like that because he cannot be here when Feanor returns, he can’t, and he can’t seem to dress even  _ thinking  _ about it.

The passage is dim, half-lit by lightstones set into the walls. He doesn’t know where it goes. He is not sure he can bear, right now, thinking about where it goes and why. He walks down it far enough that it turns, that he can no longer see Feanor’s door. He wraps himself better in his robe (the first letter is still in his pocket. Its corner pokes into him, and he can feel it crumple as he turns into the wall. He can remember that it was only a fraction of the day ago that he’d read it in his room, and he can barely believe it as he remembers it. It seems more true that it has been an Age.) He holds the bundle of his other clothes against himself. He tries to sit so as to take some edge from the stabbing ache inside him. He cries.

It is a long time before he moves again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a [google dictionary definition for 'first'](https://www.google.com/search?rls=en&q=first+define&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8): _"coming next after a specified or implied time or occurrence"_.
> 
> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


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